dear heartland with love the borderlandhttps://dearheartlandwithlovetheborderland.wordpress.com
Ukraine in letters.Sun, 01 Feb 2015 00:40:56 +0000enhourly1http://wordpress.com/https://s2.wp.com/i/buttonw-com.pngdear heartland with love the borderlandhttps://dearheartlandwithlovetheborderland.wordpress.com
A Chocolate Lifehttps://dearheartlandwithlovetheborderland.wordpress.com/2013/03/17/a-chocolate-life/
https://dearheartlandwithlovetheborderland.wordpress.com/2013/03/17/a-chocolate-life/#commentsSun, 17 Mar 2013 18:25:00 +0000http://dearheartlandwithlovetheborderland.wordpress.com/?p=196]]>“What is today?” I ask my students, inflecting my voice to emphasize the question (probably annoying at 8:00 a.m.).And they respond all blasé, “Monday”, or “Tuesday”, or whatever day of the week it happens to be.I follow-up, “Why is today special?”My students look around at one another and shrug their shoulders.So, I give them a bigger hint, “What American holiday is today?”Usually, one out of the bunch will guess, making that introduction worth something.

Well, tomorrow, I can make a safe bet that they won’t guess St. Patrick’s Day.It’s not unheard of but quite off the radar here.When you start to talk about little mystical men, rainbows with treasure, rivers of green beer, and being pinched, you kind of start to wonder about the holiday yourself.A taxi driver told me though, that holidays in Ukraine are excuses to drink vodka and eat salo.I have to agree.But Irishmen, unlike Russians, don’t need an excuse to drink.

To add to the joviality of today—me, minus a Guinness or the St. Paul parade or a green get-up–I’m coming home in two months.In the spirit of Ukraine, things came together quickly.The GRE I had cursed taking in Kiev, mostly due to its overnight train ride, hidden location, and high school math, turned out to be worth it.So did a fall spent upping my chances of Carpel Tunnel Syndrome, typing and re-typing grad school applications.Considering it’s the English Department we’re talking about, I was up to my neck in essays.It’s the “chocolate life” for me now, as Ukrainians have told me.It’s like our “the good life”, “the stars are aligned”, or “all is right in the world”.And for the most part, it’s true.

I will pursue a Master’s in TEFL (Teaching English as a Foreign Language) at the University of Washington-Seattle and at the same time, work for the ESL (English as a Second Language) program as an assistant and teacher.The surprise?I should begin on June 16th in Seattle.That means two weeks at home in Minnesota before U-hauling it cross-country.No, I haven’t ever been there, but “Sleepless in Seattle”is a guilty pleasure and some of my best Peace Corps padrugas will be in the Pacific Northwest, so we.I know I’ll like the city action, green spaces, ocean, markets, microbreweries, cherries, kayaking, hiking, skiing, diversity, rain?, coffee, bookshops, and all that jazz.And I’ll really like having visitors!

What’s more “chocolate-y” to me though, is finally getting to catch up with family and friends.It will be so nice to be present in the flesh.This summer will mark a whole other round of “firsts”, maybe not forever firsts like in Ukraine, but “firsts” starting from being back.And, like I promised, according to our deal, I’ll be home to celebrate Grandma Margaret’s 90th birthday.

It’s still too early to get sappy and weepy about leaving my second home, like I know I will.If we’re using drinking metaphors (because, this is Ukraine and today is St. Patty’s Day), this one’s to the near future!

While I don’t want to wish away time, I think it’s healthy to have a “things I’m looking forward to” list going.So, here are a few to give you an idea.

-Take a long, hot shower with great pressure 24/7

-Drive.Because there’s nothing like being alone, on the open road, windows down, wind blowing, and music blasting.

-Run. And not worry about getting chased and bitten by a pack of stray dogs, harassed by drunk men, honked at by coal trucks, run over by speeding Ladas, or twisting an ankle in a pothole.

-Smile at strangers.And not get hit on or given a weird look.

-Stand in lines.Lines in which people do not push, shove, and budge.I like this kind of order.

-Get a new hair-do.The mullet cut since has grown out but my hair has been pretty neglected.

-Go barefoot on grass.Not worry about stepping on any number of dangerous objects.

Well, that’s all for now, folks.My list goes on but it only goes downhill from here.Stay tuned for that sappy, weepy note I promised, come next month.

]]>https://dearheartlandwithlovetheborderland.wordpress.com/2013/03/17/a-chocolate-life/feed/1dearheartlandwithlovetheborderlandMy Mother’s Daughterhttps://dearheartlandwithlovetheborderland.wordpress.com/2013/02/17/my-mothers-daughter/
https://dearheartlandwithlovetheborderland.wordpress.com/2013/02/17/my-mothers-daughter/#commentsSun, 17 Feb 2013 13:49:46 +0000http://dearheartlandwithlovetheborderland.wordpress.com/?p=193]]>I’m my mother’s daughter. At least as far as hostess-ing goes. Most people say I resemble my dad (I agree, our smiles are uncannily alike) but when it comes to throwing a party, that’s where we diverge. I do recognize Costco and Mama Maria’s catering, but I’d just rather do it myself. Same goes for having real plates, even if they’re chipped and by no means a matching set. Perhaps you’ll get lucky and have one of my two forks or soup spoons. Otherwise, it’s a tea spoon or my train spork for you. As you can see, I’m not the quintessential “hostess with the mostest”—I smoke out the kitchen and have to open a window, I always manage to burn myself or the rice, and have to run back out the store around the corner for something that was on the list but I still managed to forget. For to me, it’s all in the company and the spontaneity that make a party. And glittery decorations can’t hurt either.

I jazzed up my lamp a little for the occasion and I just might leave it. A fiesta every day!

Too poor to buy flowers? Paper roses!

Glittery name place cards–Sergey, Tonya, Brenton, Sara.

Last night, I threw a Mexican fiesta in my apartment. I invited Tonya, my fifty-something padruga (gal pal) who sells newspapers, magazines, crosswords, horoscopes, lottery tickets, and the birthday cards I send to you in the little post office shop. We met in June 2011, my first summer in Snezhnoe. Take into consideration my affinity for snail mail and imagine my frustration as the forms in Ukrainian became a barrier between me and writing to you all. She saved me by translating into Russian. From there on out, we were friends. I visit at least once a week to catch up on the latest and have been lucky to be her guest many a time, which includes fasting for the entire day. There is no getting out of second helpings, not to mention dessert. So, I thought it was about time she be my guest and have elastic pant of her own at the ready.

After eating, drinking, and being merry!

Patriots.

Tonya sewed this bag as a surprise…just in case anyone in town wasn’t yet aware of the Amerikanka in their midst:)

Brenton, my American pal from the next town over came for the event, so we had a 50/50 female to male ratio going on for once. Her husband, Sergey, had a partner to drink cognac with, while Tonya and I got tipsy on wine. The four of us had a cheerful dinner party and cheers-ed to our fated, if not unlikely friendship—for a former-Soviet career military man like Sergey would have been carted off to prison for carousing with the likes of us Americans. Sergey was digging the hot sauce and the fajitas and quesadillas were a real hit, while the kidney beans in spicy tomato sauce over pearl barley (like fat brown rice) were exotica. The bar included: cognac, vodka, red wine, or white wine by taste. There was even a fireworks “show” with a front row view from my balcony i.e. drunk people from the café next door celebrating and setting off car alarms.

The same rule applies in Gorlovka, Ukraine as in Vegas: What happens at girls’ banya weekend stays at banya weekend. But I suppose I can let you in on the basics. First, excuse me for taking for granted that you speak the same mishmash of English and Russian and nonsense as I do. A banya is a bathhouse. Perhaps you’ve heard of the Russian bathhouse? I’m not sure what you picture, but I envisioned the sauna packed with putrid-smelling, fat Slavic-looking men elbow to elbow, sweating profusely, laughing loudly, and drinking excessively. Our banya experience diverged slightly from this scene though the former pretty picture I painted for you is in fact, common in these parts.

Instead, we were seven American girls barely managing to sweat it out for 10 minute stints in the sauna, finding relief in an ice-cold XXL bucket bath or dumping bucket on a string (like at a carnival). During the sauna intervals, we sat ourselves down at the kitchen table for veggies in french onion dip, prized contraband from America, baked goods, citrus fruits, and plenty of lemon white wine spritzer to go around. There, we all indulged in extra-hot showers before going outside with wet hair (and not dying). Not much has changed from fourth grade sleepovers except maybe the addition of alcohol and the added element of Peace Corps, where among best friends, no subject is taboo.

Seven American girls getting ready for the banya. *Photo courtesy of the lovely Kristen Hartman.

What sleepovers are made of, whether you’re twenty-something or still in middle school.

And the funny kid stories continue to roll in. In my fourth grade class, I asked, “Do you know any cities in America?” All of their hands shot up. Dima: “London!” Me: “No, that’s in a different country, England, across the ocean.” Daniel: “Gotham City!” At that point, there was no holding my laughter in. Me: “Umm, like Batman? I don’t think that’s a real city. Well, it might be!” Then, Alona: “Chicago!” (with a hard emphasis on the “Ch”). Thank goodness for the Ukrainian Diaspora in Chicago or I just dunno.

And on Valentine’s Day, one of my eleventh grade girls buttered me up and complimented me, “Miss Sara, you look beautiful today.” Aww. Not to be outdone, her friend adds, “You smell like toilet water.” Not getting a response from me, mortified, for I had showered just that morning and heck, it’s February, she clarified, “You smell like chocolate toilet water.” Clearly not getting the message in English, she gave it in Russian. The intended phrase: “Your perfume smells like chocolate.” “Eau de toilette” is not equal to “toilet water”.

In other news, the final countdown is on. Cue Europe’s “The Final Countdown”, put on your leather pants, and wear your mullets with pride, for yes, the end of Peace Corps Ukraine is drawing near. I officially say dosvedanya to Ukraine on May 29th, 101 days from today, and will take the long way home, travelling the Silk Road, Far East. The kinks are yet to be worked out but the goal is to be home in time to celebrate the Fourth of July. Bring on the barbeques, the lake swimming, the legitimate firework shows, the parades. I’m ready for you America. Are you ready for me?

]]>https://dearheartlandwithlovetheborderland.wordpress.com/2013/02/17/my-mothers-daughter/feed/0dearheartlandwithlovetheborderlandI jazzed up my lamp a little for the occasion and I just might leave it. A fiesta every day!012Glittery name place cards--Sergey, Tonya, Brenton, Sara.003010018IMG_1206012IMG_1212IMG_1215IMG_1195003Snezhnoe in Technicolor: Videos Galorehttps://dearheartlandwithlovetheborderland.wordpress.com/2013/01/16/snezhnoe-in-technicolor-videos-galore/
https://dearheartlandwithlovetheborderland.wordpress.com/2013/01/16/snezhnoe-in-technicolor-videos-galore/#commentsWed, 16 Jan 2013 19:39:21 +0000http://dearheartlandwithlovetheborderland.wordpress.com/?p=175]]>Check out these albums of Snezhnoe in video by my students and yours truly. This can be your dream come true. Come visit!

]]>https://dearheartlandwithlovetheborderland.wordpress.com/2013/01/16/snezhnoe-in-technicolor-videos-galore/feed/0dearheartlandwithlovetheborderlandChampagne Supernovahttps://dearheartlandwithlovetheborderland.wordpress.com/2013/01/16/champagne-supernova/
https://dearheartlandwithlovetheborderland.wordpress.com/2013/01/16/champagne-supernova/#commentsWed, 16 Jan 2013 15:52:15 +0000http://dearheartlandwithlovetheborderland.wordpress.com/?p=125]]>As a child of the 90s and all it entailed—pleather, boy bands, Hubba Bubba bubble gum—can I then claim stake to Oasis’ “champagne supernova”? For a month and counting, I have been celebrating—Christmas Eve and Day, Russian Orthodox Christmas Eve and Day, New Year, Old New Year,… And this list is not an exhaustive one. Just eating the mayonnaise salad and praying no one piles a heaping helping of seconds, thirds, fourths, or fifths, after asking why I am not eating. What we call food pushing in America is good hospitality in Ukraine; feeding is what Ukrainian mamas do best. Thus, after not having been paid for overtime, my stomach is now on-strike and my liver is out setting cars on fire, having taken to the streets, rioting.

But let’s backtrack to how I became this champagne supernova. I left in the swirl of a mid-December snowstorm, spending a quality two hours at the bus stop with my 60-pounder suitcase, drunk chatty old man, and the young mechanic I practically begged to save me from the old man’s peskiness, and finally, hopping on my white horse, err, I mean, catching the last bus outta town to make my flight home to America the next morning. It was one of those days I was stranded, cold, and hungry and was so blessed to be on the receiving end of the kindness of strangers.

Along the way, I had the chance to pay it forward when a Ukrainian woman Canadian-bound and I both missed our connecting flights out of Amsterdam. Not often do I find myself in a situation when I can help by speaking English. Usually, it’s the opposite; me, the struggling foreigner, so it was nice to make use of myself for once. Plus, I have a place to stay in a mountain village in the fairytale land of western Ukraine. And with Ukrainians, that’s not an empty promise.

A number of metal detectors, airstairs, airline safety speeches, popping ears, and complementary in-flight beverages later, I landed on American soil in Atlanta, Georgia. Southern accents and big, white smiles greeted me. I was shellshocked. There was a Starbucks in every terminal, can you believe it? The place was full of loud English talkers everywhere, and I felt like I was eavesdropping on every conversation. Here, I have the choice to block out Russian if I so choose. The pants size was considerably larger but I just couldn’t get over the wrinkly clothes (Don’t they have any pride? Do they not own an iron?) in the casual style, a fashion phenomenon I try (and fail) to explain to my classes, for apart from Adidas track suits, the look hasn’t yet caught on here. So, here I was, in my polyester cheetah dress, knee-high boots, and Ukrainian braid feeling somewhat like a fake.

Normalcy resumed quickly. It began at the arrival gate at midnight in Minneapolis International Airport, where my dad was waiting for me. I was elated to be claimed by my family. A minor case of jet lag aside, with the help of Tylenol P.M., I slept like a rock in my own bed. I forgot how good that felt. And to wake up in my bedroom. Then, to have an overflowing cup of coffee and Mark Ryan custom-order omelets with Allie and Joey. Now, that’s a treat.

My first field trip was to the DMV, where I was issued a new Driver’s License, one of those essential things for suburban American survival. After that, I was set to tend to some business. I stopped by the dentist to check the pearly whites and the hair stylist to cut away any trace of a mullet. I ran errands, too. Target was a highlight. On those days when errands literally have you running all over town, we dream of this place. It has everything. So dangerous.

Oh, and the choices. So. Many. Choices. A shopping trip to the Mall of America happened at the front end of my visit, in the thick of Christmas shopping. As a difficult shopper to begin with, the choices were overwhelming to say the least. I had to remind my mom that picking out nylons at the stationary store counts as a shopping trip in Snezhnoe. But, after a minor meltdown and self-imposed time out, I pulled it together and enjoyed the deals, people watching, and beautiful Christmas decorations.

The Christmas spirit was alive and well and I was ecstatic to decorate the Christmas tree, more than I can say for my bro and sis, who grudgingly helped, probably out of guilt. The cousins came over, making Joey the minority as the only guy representing, as usual. With our moms, we continued the Bake-Off tradition for the 34th year (and counting). The outcome were homemade caramels and Christmas cookies decorated by yours truly and company.

On Christmas Eve, we had the big Ryan Christmas Eve shindig. All the relatives came over, where we feasted on the not-so-traditional-but-nonetheless-delicious Italian menu, thanks to Mama Maria catering. Hey, our numbers are up to forty-ish by now. While there was no dancing per Ukrainian tradition, there was plenty of drink to go around and we made merry our Irish kind of way. On Christmas Day, we had dinner with Mom’s crew, a more intimate dinner than the night before, and one that included artichokes to be dipped in lemon butter. And how could I forget, Santa stopped by!

Post-Christmas, things died down, if only a bit, and for the first time in several years, the majority of the Mahtomedi girls were reunited over brunch at Key’s. In the space of an hour or so, we caught up and enjoyed being together in-person. We had a Dad date and watched the new James Bond flick, “Skyfall”, in a real movie theater and afterwards, drove to the other side of the St. Croix River for Caribbean food at one of our favorite haunts in Hudson, Wisconsin, San Pedro Café. One day, my mom treated my sister and I to manicures and pedicures and a pizza night in. Another night, I spent catching up with my Winona State girls out on the town in Minneapolis.

In between that, I had a visit with Grandma, played bar BINGO, did laundry with a washer and dryer, learned how to knit a scarf, and indulged in what I had been pining for: Mexican, seafood, green vegetables, kalamata olives and feta cheese, sushi, old fashioned black licorice, ginger tea, dark beer, Malbec, Italian pasta, French baguettes, goat cheese, sandwiches, avocadoes, berries, yogurt, milk, coffee, ice cream. While I didn’t get a bite of everything I had missed, it will be waiting for me when I get back. Plus, it was my ultimate goal to spend as much time as possible with family and friends just hanging out rather than to gain a few pounds. So, mission accomplished.

Unfortunately I took my mission so seriously that I didn’t take very many pictures…opps. So, until I round up some more from friends and family, here’s what I got of my two weeks in heaven, I mean, Minnesota.

]]>https://dearheartlandwithlovetheborderland.wordpress.com/2013/01/16/champagne-supernova/feed/0dearheartlandwithlovetheborderlandGeorgia: The Country and An Early Gift from Santahttps://dearheartlandwithlovetheborderland.wordpress.com/2012/10/29/122/
https://dearheartlandwithlovetheborderland.wordpress.com/2012/10/29/122/#commentsMon, 29 Oct 2012 13:34:32 +0000http://dearheartlandwithlovetheborderland.wordpress.com/2012/10/29/122/]]>It all depends on your audience. When you tell Americans that you’re going to “Georgia”, it is to The Peach State, but to Europeans, say “Georgia” and it’s the wine country. So, I make the distinction; Georgia: the country. Fall break has become an anticipated, coveted week of vacation, as winter travel proves a perilous venture. We arrived a couple of hours later to the new Kakheti airport, an hour, give or take, outside of Tbilisi. Partly-finished, without toilets or an ATM due to waning government funding, we were nevertheless impressed by the mini-bottle of Georgian wine presented to us by customs, the officers giddy to see an American passport come through. Once our marshrutka had filled up, our driver took us away from the airport plopped in a goat field. First stop: a gas station with real toilets and even toilet paper, a sink, and soap! where we could do our business and uncross our legs. Second stop: an exchange shop where we could hand over some dolla billz for some lari. Third stop: a marshrutka station somewhere in Tbilisi. Used to doing things the hard way, Steph and I weren’t fazed by our directionlessness but instead, haggled with the taxi driver and settled on being only slightly ripped out, as we were ready to drink that airport wine at our hostel (which we did…in bed).

A small, walkable city, we strolled up and down Rustaveli, bumped into Freedom Square, followed the cobblestone veins into Old Town, and crossed the bridge over Mt’k’vari River. At times Asian and at times, Western, Tbilisi did the body and soul good. The subtropical climate, boasting cerulean blue skies and 70 degree weather we were happily overdressed for, allowed for outdoor café-hopping and ample wandering. Despite qualms over eastern European gondolas, we rode in the cable car up to Sololaki Hill for an unmatched panorama of Tbilisi and an up-close view of the 20-meter high, aluminum Kartlis Deda, or Mother Homeland statue.

The sequence of events are fuzzy but over the course of several days, we indulged in the following treats. The squirrel mascot at the “Smart” supermarket caught our eye and so we went up and down the aisles, where we mostly just looked at the German-imported goodies. One evening, we made a date night of it and watched the only Russian film playing that evening, “Taken 2”. It was a good flick and because it wasn’t too philosophical, we were able to follow. It even smelled like an American movie theater. After a cold shower at the hostel, the banya called out to us. It didn’t disappoint. We joined the local ladies and got a scrub-down and massage after steamy showers. Afterwards, we felt radiant. The Museum of Soviet Occupation in Georgia piqued our interest, as life now is so intertwined with this past. One thing on our to-do list included finding the train station, which was hidden under the auspices of a mall and in Georgian script. This led us to a detour—the bazaar, where we were invited to several meals and partook in a swig of cha-cha and eluding further invitations by fibbing that our train left in an hour.

I must mention that we ate and drank well. The national cuisine includes khachapuri on the streets (a tad greasy but a steal at mere cents for lunch), clay pot of spicy kidney beans , fried eggplant, bread, cheese, shashlik (lamb and pork), cucumber and tomato salad with parsley and fennel (a twist from Ukraine, which uses dill, parsley, and ample sunflower oil), sautéed wild mushroom caps with cheese, dumplings (bypassed as not big dumpling fans and available in Ukraine).

A fellow Peace Corps friend tipped us off about the marshrutka rides to Kazbegi in the mountains, saying that the roads are rougher than those in Ukraine. Disbelieving, I brought along a small supply of Dramamine and thank goodness, since those roads lived up to their reputation. Marshrutkas at breakneck speeds, swerving around potholes, hugging the curves, dodging animals, people, cars, or whatever crosses its path. Babushkas sold fruit leather and nuts wrapped in fruit leather on the side of the road, sheep fur hats, colorful patterned knit socks and hats, seeds and nuts sectioned in plastic containers, scooped by the same glass cup I have in my kitchen and in all ex-Soviet countries using for measuring. The moment we got off the marshrutka, a local guy called our guesthouse owner, Vano, to pick us up at the stop in town, as they are all on a first-name basis in this village. Vano, speaker of Georgian, Russian, English, Japanese, though we couldn’t verify all the languages he claimed, proved a bit overbearing, wanting to drive us everywhere, but incredibly hospitable. Vinera, his mother took care of our alimentary needs and beyond, cooking us some hearty dinners– omelets, meat and potatoes, piroshkies that we packed to-go and donated to some hungry town doggies.

We hiked up a steep trail to the Holy Trinity Church at the top of Mt. Kazbeg, where we lay in the churchyard for three hours picnicking, soaking up the sun (Steph and her fair skin got a sunburn) and took in the mountains that surrounded us, the village in the valley. A mountain dog befriended us and escorted us down the mountain, much of which we spent sliding on our butts down the steep grade and loose rock, laughing all the way, still tipsy on red wine, making it all the funnier. To top off the day, we enjoyed coffees at new, swanky “The Rooms” hotel, where we pretended we belonged, to watch the sunset. Then, we snuggled in our “hammock” twin beds pushed together, all the blankets piled on, the gas heater in the room across the hall, the mountains cold at night.

Flash forward two marshrutka rides, a metro trip, and a taxi drive when we arrived to Nato and Lado’s Guesthouse. Here, we confused our host with our nationality, him expecting a couple of American girls and us greeting him with “zdrastvehtye” instead of “hello”. Lado quickly became a fast friend, the proof being the free-flowing cha-cha together. The welcome tray enjoyed on the terrace was a sign of what was to come: Turkish coffee, red wine (to the brim), white wine (orange-infused), a shot of cha-cha (two double shots). That first day, we had to lie down for a little afternoon nap. The time here was spent wandering, eating, drinking, photographing, and socializing. Signaghi, the little town on a bluff in wine country is a place to come back to. I fell in love with the slow pace.

Once more, I found myself in Tbilisi but this time without Steph, as we were taking different routes back to Ukraine. At the hostel, we met lots of international travelers, the cast of characters including Sam from Leeds, England, who has biked across Europe and after a flight, will continue across Asia to reach his final destination, Australia, the Polish crew who ran the place, an Irish lad who has been travelling for nearly five years after quitting his job as a lawyer. With this merry band of pranksters, I spent my last night kicking up my heels. The Poles in-residence took us to an underground, local Georgian establishment where we shared an extremely cheap and delicious family-style meal, followed by a shot of cha-cha on the way to a hole-in-the-wall bar, and ending with dancing at a dive of a club before catching a taxi to the airport at 2:30 a.m. Hey, this could have been the liveliest nightlife I will enjoy for some time.

Well, maybe not. Santa Claus delivered my present early this year. He said I was a good girl and has arranged for me to go home home for Christmas this year. I will be in Minnesoooota from December 15th until December 28th. My wish is to spend every minute catching up with family and friends. I can’t wait to see you!

]]>https://dearheartlandwithlovetheborderland.wordpress.com/2012/10/29/122/feed/4dearheartlandwithlovetheborderlandSara bakes egg hot dish.https://dearheartlandwithlovetheborderland.wordpress.com/2012/09/13/sara-bakes-egg-hot-dish/
https://dearheartlandwithlovetheborderland.wordpress.com/2012/09/13/sara-bakes-egg-hot-dish/#commentsThu, 13 Sep 2012 12:59:18 +0000http://dearheartlandwithlovetheborderland.wordpress.com/2012/09/13/sara-bakes-egg-hot-dish/]]>Among the few weapons in my students’ English language arsenal is “How old are you?” It’s a question they review each year, joining the likes of “What is your name?”, “Who is in your family” and so on. So I say, “I’m 25”. Then, they pause to think, translate it into Russian, “Ahh, davatset piyat.” I usually can’t tell if being 10-ish years their senior is a lot or a little. “Yes”, I say. And I inquire, “How old are you?” They pause, surprised to get the question back, think a moment, and return with an age in the 7-17 range. I point to my heart, smile, and say, “but I feel young” and I think they get it.

Although it’s considered taboo to ask a woman her age—especially a woman in an authoritarian role— all bets are off with me. Yes, I admit that I don’t hold much of an authoritarian role with the students. And I’m okay with that. It’s a trade-off. I don’t scream at them, make them memorize and repeat vocabulary lists and grammar charts, or interrupt them to correct their every teeny-tiny mistake. Instead, I let them make fun of my lousy Russian accent, expose my oftentimes embarrassing cultural mistakes, maintain eye contact and truly listen and remember what they say, and make an effort to know each and every one of them (tricky when there are four Katia’s and three Roma’s in one classroom).

I do play the part to the best of my ability. You know, for appearances and all. It makes things a-o.k. on the teacher side of things. I wear high-heels so I can click-click-click quickly down the hallway. I put on lipstick because all of the other teachers do. That’s why we have the teacher’s room. That, and to gossip. Oh, and to check the ever-changing schedule of lessons. Skirts and dresses are my prerogative, though rarely do I see dress pants on the women at school. Fancy hair-dos are secondary to leisurely coffee drinking in the early hours before school but I try to at least look presentable each day. I remember when I was in school, sitting for 45 minutes, looking at my teacher, picking up on his/her ticks. Darn kids notice everything. Plus, there is a tendency here for me to be the last to know about that meeting with the mayor or that photo session —“Oh, I didn’t mention that to you?” Always ready. Never surprised.

I also never thought that at 25 I would still be making cold lunches to take to school. I like it. If I can help it, I’ll be taking cold lunches to school for the rest of my life, whatever and wherever I call school. That’s what led me to baking egg hot dish. What’s a girl to bring? Keep in mind, convenience is not a thing here. We have caviar-flavored chips but no shaved, smoked-turkey lunchmeat to be found. It’s a good day when my chicken lady at the bazaar has fresh filets for me because even she knows there’s no way in heck I’m buyin’ a kilogram of chicken livers. Sometimes, you just want the comforts of home. Inspired by Grandma Margaret’s recipes, not only famous in the Ryan circle but a hit at Mother Mary Holy Catholic Church in Burnsville, Minnesota, I whipped together an egg hot dish. After washing it down with a cup of tea at my desk today, I have to say it didn’t disappoint.

So, while I have those days, just like every normal human being, things have more or less fallen into place around here. Only took a year, give or take. I “get” why I’m here for twenty-seven months. Things are rolling now. I like to think that I’ve been around the block (if only once on training wheels), older and a little wiser to the ways of the world here. And it feels good not to be shook up all the time, save those marshrutka rides. Just a healthy dose of being shook up every once in awhile. There ‘ya have it, Sara bakes egg hot dish.

]]>https://dearheartlandwithlovetheborderland.wordpress.com/2012/09/13/sara-bakes-egg-hot-dish/feed/1dearheartlandwithlovetheborderlandThe ABC’s of Irelandhttps://dearheartlandwithlovetheborderland.wordpress.com/2012/08/27/the-abcs-of-ireland/
https://dearheartlandwithlovetheborderland.wordpress.com/2012/08/27/the-abcs-of-ireland/#commentsMon, 27 Aug 2012 14:25:36 +0000http://dearheartlandwithlovetheborderland.wordpress.com/?p=117]]>As I have gushed in earlier accounts, the much-anticipated family meet-up in Ireland has come and sadly, has gone. Although I told myself I wouldn’t shed any tears when it came time to go our separate ways goodbyes have a way of sneaking up on you. They are made all that much more difficult when it will be another 10 months, you are the sensitive one, and after spending so much truly fun quality time together. So, the mascara did run, giving me a minor case of raccoon eyes, but it’s only because I love my family that much. Now back in Snezhnoe, I feel rejuvenated, stomach still full of Irish food and drink, endowed with “the gift of gab”, and like every year, excited to go back to school.

See for yourself what we did in my photographs, and please don’t judge too harshly. We did do other things besides drinking. It’s the culture, okay? Below is a scattered list of people, places, and things that made Ireland everything it was and more.

]]>https://dearheartlandwithlovetheborderland.wordpress.com/2012/08/27/the-abcs-of-ireland/feed/3dearheartlandwithlovetheborderlandQuarter of a Centuryhttps://dearheartlandwithlovetheborderland.wordpress.com/2012/08/08/quarter-of-a-century/
https://dearheartlandwithlovetheborderland.wordpress.com/2012/08/08/quarter-of-a-century/#commentsWed, 08 Aug 2012 13:49:17 +0000http://dearheartlandwithlovetheborderland.wordpress.com/?p=114]]>There’s an old joke in my family that goes a little something like this: I have a good memory, but it’s short. Every year, it becomes truer. My need to write things down is if not a little alarming. I suppose it comes with crossing that quarter of a century milestone.

Hang around our bunch long enough and you’ll soon realize you won’t be let off easy. There is no shortage of joking and teasing. If only I could count the times I began crying and ended up laughing or began laughing and ended up crying. Humor goes with the territory. It’s in our blood. To me, the lineage begins with Grandpa Mark, who passed on the genes to my dad. That’s not to say they weren’t serious about us being little hellions running around in the house and messing around at the dinner table.

Growing up, this humor often had me rolling my eyes but I learned to be quick and dish it back. While it was often harmless, there were times I lived up to the nickname “Sassy Sara” and on one occasion, had my mouth washed out with soap. I imagine I deserved it. It’s largely due to this sense of humor and joie de vivre that I have been able to come out of those situations with large frustration potential with at least a smirk, if not a giggle. As a foreigner in a country where things change at the drop of a kopek and people act opposite than you would expect, really all you can do is laugh or cry. Excluding a few minor exceptions (because you can’t laugh all the time), I laugh.

Grandpa Mark was a self-proclaimed non-traveler and homebody, except when it came to our motherland, The Emerald Isle. Not quite every year after their five kiddos, my dad the youngest and the last to fly out of the nest, Grandma Margaret and Grandpa Mark packed up and went to Ireland. There, they visited The Flynn’s, good family friends, who continue to run tours for Americans and bring over Irish talent at Irish-fests in the Midwest. It was the land of milk and honey for them–corned beef and cabbage was plentiful, Grandpa’s glass was full of either Jameson or Guinness, and “Danny Boy” and other folk favorites were sung live at the pub just down the way.

So, after hearing stories of where I come from, the big day is here. On Sunday, my feet will be planted among the green fields of Ireland. I will look for that magic Grandma and Grandpa felt. I wonder if my heart will know I’m home. Or maybe it was the love they had for each other. In that case, I will feel no lack, since I will have Dad, Julie, Allie, and Joey to hug and hug some more. Because hugging goes hand-in-hand with laughing.

P.S. Catch up on summer adventures by clicking on the link on the “photographs” page.

]]>https://dearheartlandwithlovetheborderland.wordpress.com/2012/08/08/quarter-of-a-century/feed/0dearheartlandwithlovetheborderlandThe Dog Whispererhttps://dearheartlandwithlovetheborderland.wordpress.com/2012/06/24/the-dog-whisperer/
https://dearheartlandwithlovetheborderland.wordpress.com/2012/06/24/the-dog-whisperer/#commentsSun, 24 Jun 2012 09:24:32 +0000http://dearheartlandwithlovetheborderland.wordpress.com/?p=110]]>After a winter of forced hibernation, it has been a real treat to spend some quality time with my New Balances. From the curtained window of the marshrutka I sometimes ride west out of Snezhnoe toward civilization, I first spotted the golden-domed, royal blue church. The micro-regions surrounding Snezhnoe each have their respective mines, whether open or closed, legal or illegal, as well as churches, and little corner shops. I’d never been to this one, nestled among the slag heaps I had mistaken for hills as a rookie to the Donbass region.

At eight o’clock the sun was already emanating intense rays and I regretted not getting out earlier. Nevertheless, I found shade in the paths along the railroad tracks, paths carved by either grazing goats or commuting miners. I bounded through the tall grass, hoping to not run into any snakes, drunks, or other nuisances. Then, two forks. After a brief pause, I opted for the descending dirt path instead of the patched up pavement road. From this point of view, the royal blue church looked to be in closer proximity. I soon found myself in a small settlement, where every home has a tall fence with a ferocious growl heard from behind the fence that soon isn’t tall or sturdy enough.

Thus, I slowed my run to a stroll upon seeing a snoozing dog, hoping to be seen as an innocent passerby. After reaching the end of the line, I began to up the speed again, only to hear a cacophony of barking and growling behind me. I whirled around to see a ferocious ankle-biter mere centimeters behind me. The village gang leader had crazy, clouded-over blue eyes and pointy shark teeth and was clearly not happy to have me tread on his turf. What to do? Yell for help,“pomogeeteye!” No, I was in this one alone. A few months earlier, a fellow runner and friend had found himself corned by the same sort of canine riff-raff. He passed along some dog whisperer advice: don’t look the dog directly in the eyes, don’t turn your back to the dog, and slowly back away. It worked. Eventually, the hooligans let me go.

My heart pumped with fear and my veins pulsed with adrenaline and drove me to pick up and carry two large lumps of coal for a distance—one for each hand— until I realized they weren’t very heavy and didn’t offer much protection. The way home was along the coal truck route I had opted not to take in the first place. I choked on the exhaust of a motorbike with an occupied sidecar jerking all the way up a hill, and ignored the stares, honks, and leers of the drivers speeding past me with their loads. It was the promise of a shower that got me home.

The day before, I found myself also in the territory of Mine No. 4, though it offered less dramatic events than this morning beheld. One of my former 10th grade students invited me for a village tour, which turned into a family meet ‘n greet over lunch and tea. Since I was stranded there until the bus to town at 5 p.m., we walked to my haven in Snezhnoe, a spiritual bath house and tap, complete with gazebos, foot bridges, a bubbling brook, and benches on the grounds. People come from as far as Russia (well, cross the border at least) and Italy (the 2 meter tall visiting basketball team) to fill up 6 liter plastic jugs, bathe in the spiritual waters, dunk their heads three times in a spiritual cleanse, receive blessings and say prayers from the sister working there, and buy crosses, saint cards, and candles. With no running water on the mine currently, it’s also a welcome relief in the June heat.

At the beginning of the week, I played hostess myself. With Donetsk awarded the honor as one of the hosting cities of the EuroCup in Ukraine, a couple of fellow Peace Corps Volunteers and friends made their way from oblasts far far away to the east to catch a game in the Donbass Arena, our region’s bundle of joy. The outcome of the Ukraine vs. England game could have turned out better, but our crowd had a good time enjoying each others’ company. It’s a real (and rare) treat to have friends come out this way and there is just something to be said for simply being with people who you “get” and who “get” you. To celebrate our being together and summer solstice, we caught up on news, sipped sangria, ate homemade pizzas, swam in the black waterfall, waited for buses, and cheered for Ukraine.

The weeks preceding that, I had my own stint as a Ukrainian fan in Kiev, when the Ukrainian team won against Sweden’s. The 20,000 mostly shirtless, quite tall, and largely blond-haired Swedish fans that roamed the main street of Khreshatyk were nevertheless jolly and nursed their wounds with cheap (and cheap-tasting) but cold beer at sidewalk cafes. While I was there, I spent most of my time visiting Mama Mila and Papa Sergey in Myronivka, commuting to Kiev for Peace Corps to-dos in Papa Sergey’s marshrutka. Strawberry-picking season called, so I leapt at the chance to go to the village farm, and also pay a visit to the baby bunnies and chicks.

For the better part of the summer, I will be living out of a backpack. The travel schedule is a bit dizzying on paper but the chance to get up and go is one to take advantage of during the months when teachers are seriously off, the water situation is dicey, and the apartment is stuffy. In July, I will be in Yevpatoria, a town on The Black Sea in Crimea, in southern Ukraine, working as a camp counselor. Then, a few days there exploring with a friend before we go to Russian Language Training for a few days. After that, straight to western Ukraine to go hiking, camping, and trailblazing in The Carpathian Mountains. Continue the adventure across the border in Romania, travelling with some pals in Transylvania. In August, I wash my clothes, re-pack, and meet my dad, Julie, Allie, and Joey in Ireland for a long-anticipated family reunion. Already, the first bell rings September 1st, my second and last first day of school in Ukraine. Wow.

]]>https://dearheartlandwithlovetheborderland.wordpress.com/2012/06/24/the-dog-whisperer/feed/0dearheartlandwithlovetheborderlandBlessings and Curseshttps://dearheartlandwithlovetheborderland.wordpress.com/2012/05/24/blessings-and-curses/
https://dearheartlandwithlovetheborderland.wordpress.com/2012/05/24/blessings-and-curses/#commentsThu, 24 May 2012 18:04:48 +0000http://dearheartlandwithlovetheborderland.wordpress.com/?p=104]]>In the throes of a love affair with summer, the only tangible evidence of our ephemeral affair with spring lies in wilted red and yellow tulips, replaced now with a hardier summer stock. The sudden warm-up has been more of a blessing than a curse. I plea end-of-the-school-year-craziness for the haphazard list.

Curses (to get ‘em outta the way)…
-temperatures in the 80s
-lack of water, the feeling when you turn on the faucet at night and there’s not even a drop
-characters out of the woodwork, enjoying beer 24/7
-stuffy marshrutka (bus) rides, during which the windows are kept shut due to the fear of sickness from a draft, which is made worse by sharing the space where non-deodorant wearers are the majority and of course, there is nothing like rubbing sticky forearms with your seatmate
-coal dust—smudgy, sparkly, and grey—that manages to get everywhere (and I thought, “How could my feet get that dirty just walking across town?”)
-spring fever at school, which has upped questionable behavior and felled any trace of motivation, while bringing out Miss Sara’s “strict” Russian teacher alter-ego—ha, in my dreams
-A guard dog resembling “The Beast” from the movie, “The Sandlot”, in size and ferocity, which guards the entrance to the stadium I will perhaps never set foot in, in fear of being infected with rabies or dying from fear alone

Blessings (warm limbs help this list grow)…
-new chiming clock in the roundabout, which makes watch-wearing or cell phone consulting
-early sunrises that gives early-risers an aesthetic treat over morning coffee
-homemade iced tea and the first ice cubes of the year after the ice cube tray find
-fireworks displays at the café next door, the prime spot from my kitchen window or balcony, magical once your heart recovers from the initial boom boom boom
-shopping bags spilling with produce from the bazaar, more and more appearing each week: radishes, tomatoes and cucumbers, sorrel (like sour spinach), greens (parsley, dill, green onion), strawberries, cherries
-open windows season
-prying sunflower seeds open and luring the pigeons in with the promise of that odd dropped one
-new running routes I have stumbled on, the sights which include: bulls, cows, and goats with their masters (sometimes 10-year-old girls listening to their mP3 players) dogs and cats, miners, bazaar-goers, babushkas (grandmas) and dedushkas (grandpas) who are bench-sitting, construction workers on a smoke break
-black waterfall (I say it’s a natural wonder but really, it’s runoff from the slag heaps)in the neighboring town of Torez and the promise of a clean swimming hole, which was created due to a flood on a farm, equipment resting in peace on the bottom of the
-Last Day of lessons for 11th form, meshed traditions, part Cinco de Mayo fiesta, part Chinese Restaurant with a piñata I crafted and Oatmeal Chocolate Chip Cookies as “fortune cookies”
-Labor Day at a friend’s datscha (like a basic cottage with a kitchen garden and patio with grape vines above, a group of twenty-somethings relaxing under the stars, feasting on shashlik (spiced meat cooked over an open fire), toasting with wine and “Green Label” Russian vodka, dancing to a mix of music from no less than five speakers, and playing a game of pass the camera around all the while
-the graduation ceremony, dance, and party, which was the first all-nighter I’ve done in awhile, but well worth the exhaustion
-the last day of school and the gift of summer vacation, which I am pining for just as much as the kiddos

Enjoy some new photographs to illustrate the lists. Take care on the home front and know your letters, e-mails, and calls are the bright spot in my days.